What Drives Us Mad
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: "Oh darling, for all your awfulness, you don't realize how much I adore you so." / Snippets of their day-after-day lives; some quiet, some pleasant, some erratic—and for the most part, as Miss Hadley puts it, "Dammit, Aleister." [A companion piece to How Do You Court A Man?]
1. By the curl of her hair

_[_ an excerpt _, from a crumpled entry, April 1889:]_

 _One day, I shall apologize for my behavior. I think._

 _If I have learned to go through the day having regretted what I had done, in which I remain unapologetic about._

* * *

" _The personality of a woman may be ascertained through her hair,"_ one Lady Adelaide once said, beneath a garish fan and a hot whisper against the ear. In this newfound revelation, Aleister believed it to be a standard of sorts.

He remembered a certain redhead of the name Cairméal; her hair was more like a mane of thick fizzled ringlets that snarled up his fingers in clumps as they were untamed, course, and voluptuous. Redheads were fun and concupiscent and so intoxicatingly wild, although the brightest flame always did burn out the quickest. They parted in good terms, the scent of scotch and orange blossoms barely faint.

Marie-Célestine had been a contrast with locks like spun gold; rich, smooth, blond. _Blondes_. They usually variegated; silvery-blond to golden-amber, pliant straight to soft curls, and cold snub to charmingly warm. Feminine had been synonymous for most of their kind―and in some cases, double-faced and mercurial. It was the short-lived night of lovemaking and then the next morning sentiments that either went to his favor or spoiled it for him. He would rather not divulge the latter.

On the other hand, Meifen was of ivory and obsidian, marble and silk. Like spilled ink, flowing black hair was draped on her pale shoulders, her long slender back. The dark beauties were magnetic and mysterious as the shade of their locks with a sort of feline-like elegance. There was a charm to them he particularly liked; he liked every part of them, honestly. Though as most mysteries endured it had begun to follow a distressing trend; thus turned it complicated and stale. Had it been that impeccable aloofness or the feel of ice instead of blood beneath her skin? Perhaps that was it.

Then there came the final tier, the brunettes.

He sighed.

Brunettes were such a commonality.

He slept with them the most though he could only recall some faces and name a rare honorable few than the whole majority. He had nothing against brunettes―in women generally―but alas the conclusion headed to the fact that there was nothing to be excited to the unbearably predictable. There wasn't anything to gush over the monotonous shades of dun and rust; simply a far cry to exceptional. Mild, malleable, earthy― he knew all of this already.

However his blue sparrow was a subject of controversy.

Aleister was almost certain she'd fall on the same category and gradually come after into bathos. Though it occurred to him that he was mistaken. So terribly mistaken.

It had been that particular morning.

"You're up early," she noticed him from the door, cool and calm in manner and speaking as she'd always been. "Tea's on the stove."

However it merely took her seconds to realize he'd been fixated, and he, a minute or so, unabashedly devoting his attention in a surprising object of interest. _Admiring rather_ , he corrected in his private musings.

"What are you stari―"

When she glanced down, a realization dawned upon her. Her reaction was as boggled as his.

He cleared his throat. "Your appearance . . . it's not very, ah, decent."

His gaze was distracted by the _thin_ cream-white cotton, brandishing the silhouetted outline of her person behind the morning light; the fabric might as well fall as one for tempting, the sort that didn't make him think twice about _ripping_ it off because it _would_ in lovely torn shreds. Then in its pale glory, his eyes traced over what little bared skin she could expose, as if they _caressed_ —from the crest of her cheek, down, gently, at the smooth column of her neck, and ever so slowly, intimately, following the slope of her shoulders and the curved jut of her collarbones above a delectable décolletage. He must be teasing now—or, perhaps she?—when one could almost grope the small soft swells of her chest, peering back and beckoning him beneath the night gown.

In disorder with tousled unkempt hair, she was exquisite.

There was that rare coy pink coloring her cheeks; her mouth parted, unsure of the words she'd utter. Sighing in frustration, she wore the dress robe hanging from the side of her chair. "That's because I live on my own. I have liberties," she reasoned practically, smoothing her face, as she began to tie the robe strings. "That . . . was before you came along." Her tone dipped lower, turning her voice into a displeased grumble.

He lifted a suggestive brow. "You can look indecent in front of me."

He had seen far more indecency than the skin could ever provide―he'd even participated in the past, no less. However his blue sparrow was a special case altogether and the mere image of her with loosened morals, a loosened nightdress― _stripped down naked_ ―was what he hadn't anticipated, acknowledging that private fantasy so soon.

Admittedly, he wouldn't be in his right mind either if he hadn't thought about it.

Miss Hadley still appeared marvelously cross. "It's as if you're implying something else."

The mention only perked an amused smile on his lips. "So you're thinking of something else. Mind enlightening me?"

If appearances could kill, he would have been caught dead at the sight of her disapproving frown.

" _Please_. Do entertain your own thoughts. I won't humor you."

He smiled at that.

 _With pleasure._

Her brow twitched in annoyance. "It's rude to stare."

Indeed, it was shameless, though whenever had he not acted like such?

"Observing."

"Nonetheless, inappropriate."

"My dear, don't berate me of inappropriateness if you subject yourself to it as well."

Then there came her outrage, boiling with anger just as hot as a steaming kettle. "Oh don't compare me to your level. I'm not the one who's gawking at my chest."

Aleister smirked, in itself felt a little wretched, a little dirty, for a gentleman like him to ever impose. "I'm a man, love. How could I ever resist when you're so willing to flaunt it anyway?"

She bristled. " _Pig_."

Then she left and perfectly had the right to do so. He was wise enough to pursue no longer.

Perhaps, it hadn't been the best choice to follow the trend of categorizing women by their hair and all that drivel—because if he hadn't known better, his blue sparrow wouldn't have been a myriad of such horrible wonderful things.

 _And her transparency_ , he smiled crookedly, _should be the blame of that._

* * *

 **A/N: This is just a collection of the things of in-between and deleted scenes and random one-shots that I couldn't add to the story. Whelp, I just posted it here anyway. Ratings may change for future chapters (soon).**


	2. Naught more but a recollection

_[_ an excerpt _, from a crumpled entry, April 1889:]_

 _C'est peut-être un regard d'elle que je n'avais point remarqué et qui m'est revenu ce soir-là par un de ces mystérieux et inconscients rappels de mémoire qui nous représente souvent des choses négligées par notre conscience, passées inaperçues devant notre intelligence_ _—_

* * *

London stunk. A token of pungency that reeked of dung and May roses—and a blended fragrance in between of saccharine and sickly and spoilt; very much like the city itself, the root of its pleasant foulness. It never stunk as it did before—no one could tell when one smelt like the other—though as rotten as it was, the scent was familiar. Familial, almost.

Staithes, however, was the backwater smell. Dank, cold, and salty. The watery scent wasn't his cup of tea quite frankly, especially when it entertained the memory of drowning in the sea, rolling waves, asphyxiation, and all. Despite his slight aversion, it was pure fresh air. Untainted with street smog and perfume.

He breathed in, the air tasting almost as sweet as the French countryside of his childhood villa.

From the open windowsill where his blue sparrow glanced afar, a faint breeze went passed the curtains, under the curls of her hair, like a delicate whisper. Blue eyes watched him then, raw with an unspoken pensiveness; blue as the sea with just as much depth.

He spoke first, asking why she hadn't closed the window.

Miss Hadley only looked back outside, muttering, "Fresh air."

He would have argued if he didn't agree with her.

* * *

 **Exposition Corner:**

" _ **C'est peut-être un regard. . .**_ **":** is a quote from Guy de Maupassant's short story _Magnetism_.


	3. Trouble in paradise

**Warning:** Sensuality; explicit lime

* * *

 _[_ an excerpt _, from a crumpled entry, mistaken for a page from an erotica:]_

 _Oh Millie love, how I want her._

 _Forgive me for my explicitness, but a man of my appetite could barely hold so long without a woman by his bed; it drives me mad, the figure of her perfect flushed self against mine, sighing sweet nothings on my neck. I want to kiss that beautiful mouth of hers, to taste that vicious tongue until I hear that low hungry sound at the back of her throat. I want to feel her, bury her deep in between walls of wild howling ecstasy, to please her in every ardent scandalous way possible, and I want her to want it as well with just as much vehemence whenever she would strike me on the cheek._

 _And for all that wondrous passion in skin and breath, I want her to not love me._

* * *

A chemise, trimmed with Chantilly lace; his fingers trailed over the ample dip of its neckline, revealing her cream-white chest, a glimpse of the valley in between her breasts. He tugged at it, reveling at the pliability of the fabric, the smoothness of her warm skin brushing on his knuckles. His eyes could only see flesh-toned silhouettes and soft curves and barely the hint of twin rosy peaks beneath the linen.

His hands did its work, groping and caressing and _touching her everywhere_ from the column of her neck down to the slopes of her hips. He wondered why he hadn't undressed her yet―rephrase that, stripped her naked. However he couldn't resist the admiration he had pored over her; she was all sorts of pastel shades of white and pink and blue, an alabastrine beauty on his lap. Her brown hair almost looked black in the blue shadows of his room, and they tumbled in wild rebellious curls, clinging to her shoulders, sticking at the side of her lips, curtaining his cheeks.

And she was sighing, sighing that pleasured sigh, and he couldn't help but think with each drop-rise rhythm of her chest: _say it, say it, say it_.

Her eyes were blue. Her lips were a delicious swollen red. A gossamer shine glistened on her brow, trickled with sweat and heat. She grappled onto him with her small hands on his shoulders but she wasn't keening in desperation, wasn't demanding to fuck her then and there even though the conclusion was obviously inevitable. "How proud of you," he remarked mockingly, pressing kisses on the hollow of her collarbone. "You're the one who asked for this."

Aleister then kissed her neck, sucked, bit, tasted; she shivered, moaning. Leaning at the side of his face, she whispered, "Don't patronize me," her lips brushed against his throat. "You're the one who started this."

He chuckled. Stubborn woman. "How did it ever," he paused, sighing at the feel of her tongue on his skin, "turn out like this?"

He felt the curve of her lips curl into a slow sensual smile. Then her fingers wove onto his hair, nails grazing against his scalp. "Does it matter?" she spoke, her tone like a caress.

Everything before was foggy, streamlined with images of silky fabrics and her body pressed against him. "I was hoping you'd rekindle the memory."

"It isn't relevant," with her hand on his chest; she was staring down at him with those fervent blue eyes. " _This_ ," and then she kissed him, kissed him so deeply he would have mistaken her for a harlot. "What's happening now is more important, isn't it?"

He kissed her again, relishing the eagerness of her mouth. "You're distracting me, aren't you, _ma_ _m_ _oineau_ _b_ _leu_?" he said in between wet lips and labored breaths. "Regardless you're doing quite a phenomenal job at it."

"Good."

"Better," he remarked. "How did I seduce you?"

"Liar," his blue sparrow retorted. "Apparently, you're not distracted enough."

"Oh, I'm distracted, my dear. Utterly, hopelessly so. However I'm curious . . . it'll nag me to no end until I know what I did. I might even consider forcing it out of you," a smirk crept onto his mouth, one that didn't promise of restraint of what he _would_ do to her. "Of course, in a manner you would certainly lose yourself for."

Her brows rose. "An interesting suggestion," she pondered aloud. "Although I'm not sure if could still speak coherently when you'd start."

"It's too early to tell. I'd still like to evoke it out of you―especially, one word in particular."

"Ah, one word, you say?"

"Yes. That one word I'd love to hear from you over and over again."

She smiled this time. It was a telling smile.

Leaning onto him, she suggested, " _La petit mort, mon amour_?" her delicate fingers began to pluck each button of his shirt, the third tugged too much that it popped two more buttons below it; he liked that fire, that aggressiveness in her. She lavished kisses to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, and he mulled whether she'd be so bold to venture down below his chest.

" _J'ai envie de toi_ ," Aleister breathed to her hair. His hand trailed up her back, tracing her spine beneath the chemise. " _Je te veux tellement,_ " his other hand cupped and swerved her knee, spreading her legs further apart, feeling the heat between her thighs unfurl. " _Je te veux baiser_ ," it sounded vulgar and bare―like those soft noises rippling out of her throat―that admitting that desire almost felt wanton, made the man in him pulse and writhe and _want and want and want_.

" _Baise-moi_ ," she purred in that alluring tone, lusty in every word, in every insignificant little detail. Her fingers found his belt, brushing daringly against his pants, his crotch. " _Je suis à toi_ _._ "

And that was all it took to break his self-control.

With her underskirt hitched up, her pale legs peeped in view with her pale knees and ankles and _thighs_. She was still straddling him, and for all the masculine pride he had, he was almost begging for that sweet friction between them to ensue. The world seemed to have turned back into a one-eighty degree angle and for a moment he lost himself in her eyes and she was already on top of him, mounting him, her strap falling delicately to her shoulder.

Above him she looked exquisite, almost aesthetical in a way that made her a muse of Rosetti's Pre-Raphaelite women however inspired out of pure moonlit erotica.

Though she was his muse, only his.

The hand on her knee traveled under her skirt and the other on her strap, indulgently tracing the thread of its elastic―until he hooked it down with a harsh tug and the it _snapped_. She gasped from the feel of fabric slipping on skin, and barely held a breath from the palm of his hand―the mercy of it―when he cups her exposed breast, a thumb teasing, _pinching_ , a sensitive nipple, in which she retaliated through grasping his hardened cock.

He almost panted out a laugh, if she hadn't been so _deft_ in her ministrations. "Say it, love."

Rubbing against her nether lips―a finger inside her and a thumb prodded against her clit―he smiled upon the wetness of her thighs, how the inside of her walls throbbed and ached, and the steady movement of her hips matched against each stroke, each relentless thrust to her core. In all her magnificent self, what then would it feel when he takes her―inside, in beautiful synchronicity.

"Say my name."

Her lips trembled, breaths mingling with his.

"Wake up."

Aleister blinked.

"Pardon?"

Her face was stoic, no longer the charmingly aroused one.

"Wake up, sir."

Then a rush of white hot pain smote him to his senses.

"― _Oi! Bloody wake up!_ "

"Wha―!"

"Thank god,"

"That was . . . " Aleister whispered, registering the situation he caught himself in; he was more or less still half-asleep, half shaken up, and she was sitting at the edge of his bed with an irate look on her face. Carefully, he poked his cheek as if to probe the pain (to ascertain if he was truly awake) and he immediately regretted opting that decision. In a loud whine, he cried, " _That_ was painful!"

Miss Hadley was simply unapologetic. "You were clutching onto me like a maniac," she reasoned, equally jarred as he was. "Goodness, I had to slap you out of it, you idiot. Can't you even hear yourself? You'll scare the neighbors with that groaning of yours."

He stopped thinking. "Groaning? I was . . . _oh_."

She inquired further. "Yes?"

"Nothing."

"And what are you clutching on exactly?" she said exasperatingly. Stray strands of her hair were jutting in awkward positions and even her fishtail plait fell from its bun, dangling flimsily at her shoulder. She appeared like she tackled a bull by the horns―which was likely his fault. "I don't suppose you're being strangled . . . hm, in your dream."

His dream. He breathed out through his teeth. With his hand cupping his face, he could only mutter: "You have no idea . . ."

She curved an inquisitive brow at his direction.

His blue sparrow didn't remotely look just as much as the seductress in his dreams; rather, she appeared like one of those crabby hardnosed governesses he had sparingly seen from time to time and he would very much prefer _not_ to indulge that image in his sexual fantasies.

She sighed deeply. "You were spouting nonsense too."

"You _heard_ that."

"I heard everything," she said, sounding utterly displeased. "I'm certain you sound like a pathetic strangled dog. I can't understand a thing."

"Will you please stop referring to me as being strangled? I assure you I'm not," if anything, the right word should be _rutting_. "However I did dream of us―"

"―That I was strangling you, perchance?"

"No."

" _Shame_."

"I didn't catch that."

"Oh nothing," Miss Hadley replied, nonchalantly smoothing her skirt, as she stood. "Well, I hope it's all over now, yes?"

Noticing her leaving― _with haste_ , he noticed―Aleister considered. "I suppose."

She was about to close the door. "And also,"

"Yes?"

Their eyes locked, and some part of him felt a kind of dread at the pit of his stomach from the sight of her sharp glare alone. "Whatever trouble it is that you're hiding between your legs," she advised, her face void of emotion, "handle it with _discretion_."

His eyes pulsed wide.

"Wait a momen―"

"Good night, sir."

The door was shut; a static silence followed.

He flopped back to his bed a few minutes later, staring dumbly at the ceiling, the glimpse of his erection prodding from his sheets mocking him further. One thought haunted him in particular: _she knows_.

Aleister whispered under his breath, " _La petit mort, eh?_ " he sighed, tossing the covers to himself. "Dammit."

(To his dismay, he didn't dream of her that night; instead he dreamt of a large bird bullying him.)

* * *

 **A/N: Forgive my French (not sorry for the dirty talk tho). I will appreciate it if you could point out some mistakes. That lime scene was too early,** _ **I know**_ **, but it was just a dream and the ending was quite satisfying to my taste** **—** **so I thought, sure, why not? Yeah, but I still scrapped it. With what I'm going for with their relationship, I'm not sure where to put this in the main story without making everything so painfully awkward. Well anyway, think of it as your last lime seeing Florence speak in French.**

 **(Will I edit this? Maybe one day,** _ **maybe**_ **)**


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